


you're mine

by possumsrus



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: Blood and Violence, M/M, ZsaszMask, man what is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26395657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possumsrus/pseuds/possumsrus
Summary: Roman and Victor make some new scars.
Relationships: Roman Sionis/Victor Zsasz
Kudos: 44





	you're mine

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a while ago and then i forgot to post it  
> (title from the song You're Mine by Phantogram)

It’s after a kill that it happens for the first time. Victor Zsasz is practically panting over the dead bodies, coming down from the exhilarating high of sating his blood lust. He strips off his shirt almost immediately, not thinking about anything besides the pin and needles beneath his skin. He can feel it aching to be split open, to aid him in keeping track, as he presses the blade to his upper arm. He hasn’t even turned away from the poor fucks hanging from the ceiling, devoid of faces. They had dared to disrespect Roman fucking Sionis and therefore had to be disposed of. 

“Mr. Zsasz!” Roman says, clearly scandalized. It snaps him out of his thoughts and he turns willingly to the crime lord.

“Yes, boss?” He asks, tone bleeding innocence while the bodies are still oozing blood onto the grimy tile floor of the deserted warehouse. Zsasz had thought he’d be gone by now, Roman usually left him to finish up the dirty work alone. 

“Come here. You know just as well as anyone what happens when you break my things, yes?”

A nod, as he thickly swallows. 

“Of course, that’s precisely the lesson I employ you to teach.” 

Roman’s firmly in his personal space now, inches from where Zsasz stands. The dead men behind them suddenly seem like silent, judging observers. Roman curls his fingers over the bottom of his henchman’s jaw, tilting the man’s face to look him directly in the eyes.

“You, Mr. Zsasz, are my things. So you don’t get to break skin without my permission.”

Fuck. Hearing that he belongs to Roman shouldn’t fuel the fire already curling around his insides as much as it does. He practically whines, the itch of his unmarked kills still humming under his skin. 

“You’re usually such a good, loyal, little dog, don’t ruin that now,” his boss practically purrs, leaning forward and breathing the words into his ear. 

“Please,” Zsasz whispers, practically breathless. 

Roman laughs and grabs his wrist, tugging the platinum blond killer with him. Not looking behind him, he backs up until they hit one of the metal tables that they brought to lay out Zsasz’ tools. Once Roman has made sure that he’s not going to be stabbed by anything, he hops onto the table, swinging his legs idly. He has yet to let go of his henchman and he uses his grip to tug a boneless Zsasz up against him and between his spread thighs. He goes without resistance, still meeting his boss’ intense stare. Roman searches his face for a moment and Zsasz realizes the knife he’d been so preoccupied by has been confiscated at some point in the heat of the moment. He recognizes the smooth, sanded wooden handle as it’s being pressed into his palm.

Looking up at the mafia boss’ face, he can see barely disguised excitement threatening to break through his calm demeanor. It looks like he’s about to lose control and clap gleefully. It might be disconcerting (if Zsasz wasn’t well, Zsasz), considering it’s juxtaposition to their situation. He seems to be getting impatient, but his henchman won’t make the same mistake again.

“Permission, boss?” he asks, trying and failing to look innocent, to conceal the predatory grin threatening to spread across his scarred features. He’s practically blinking like a caricature of seduction in a cartoon. Roman gasps, clearly eating it up as his own hitch of breath permeates the silence of the dusty room and immediately flushes. 

“Yes, pet. Do it,” He breathes, and it feels like there’s nothing in the world that matters but Roman and the tallies. 

Zsasz doesn’t hesitate, immediately dragging the blade across a blank patch on his waist, right next to his pelvic bone. It slices through the skin like it’s butter, and he can feel the relief as it washes over him while the blood washes out. It’s coming close to dripping onto Roman’s fancy dress slacks, but neither can bring themselves to care. There’s five tallies to add and he wants nothing more than to savor them, drag this out. His boss seems willing to indulge him, fixated on the brush of the knife over his skin. 

“Can I do one?” Roman asks, breath tickling his ear as he whispers it like it’s forbidden. But it’s not. Zsasz would do anything, anything for him, and Roman has to know that. He’s asking anyway. In response, the killer pushes the bloodied blade into his employer’s gloved hand and mutters the word that started this, reverently.

“Please.”

“ ‘Kay,” Roman responds, grinning. He leans back to examine his subordinate’s body and pick a place. The knife tip wanders as Zsasz watches the indecisive motions. He takes a shuddering breath when it explores near his collar bone, still not biting hard enough to draw blood. 

“ ‘Kay,” Roman says, again, “Enough foreplay.” 

Zsasz lets out a hiss as the skin is finally broken, and he’s adrift in the mixture of sensations as he presses his own hips up against the other man’s. There’s another one curving over his jawbone and up to his cheek, then one slipped into the crowded space on his chest. Just one more to go. 

“You wanna do the last one yourself?” Roman mutters, pressing a kiss to the blood dripping from Zsasz’ cheek. He nods, unable to conjure up enough brain power to formulate an actual sentence.

“Go ahead, puppy,” his boss urges, and Zsasz thinks about the days when he’d slit the throat of anyone that called him that, simply on principle. He has a reputation, after all. But, Roman… Roman is different. He finishes the last cut (on his left bicep, low enough that it can be seen when he wears one of the hideous bowling shirts in his collection), and Roman catches him in his arms, uncharacteristically gentle. He pries the knife from his suddenly tired assassin’s fingers and wipes it on Zsasz’ slacks before it vanishes back into his formerly spotless suit. 

“Come on,” Roman says, pushing Zsasz back so he can lower himself from the table, “Let’s get to the car.”

With that, he tugs his hired killer along towards the exit of the warehouse. Zsasz, as always, obediently follows after his boss.


End file.
